


Last Call

by sequence_fairy



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 11:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12131046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: Waitresses don’t often show up at his door with entreaties to help them find their missing mothers.





	Last Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perfectlyrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlyrose/gifts).



> For Kelsey, since we both needed this.

Nights like this, he doesn’t give much thought to anything but the speed at which the whiskey depletes. Usually, it is much faster than he would like, and usually, he wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache and an even more miserable disposition. Today is no exception, and the whiskey burns every time he swallows, but the heat of it keeps the darkest corners of his mind from intruding into his sleep, so he covets the burn.

It’s raining, as it has been, John thinks, since he can last remember. The city is mostly asleep; the only people still awake at this hour are no one you want to know, present company included. The wind lashes against the windows in his cramped office cum apartment and John sinks back further into his couch. No one but thieves and murderers out in weather like this, he thinks, and closes his eyes, just for a moment.

The sound of someone opening the door to his office wakes him immediately. His hand goes for the gun on the table beside him before he’s even conscious of moving. He blinks, trying to resolve the shadows into solidity, but the weak light of his desk lamp leaves him grasping for details.

“Who’s there?” he rasps, voice clouded with smoke, sleep and whiskey. He stands, somewhat slower than he would like to admit, but there’s no answer, so he steps forward, into the circle of light on the floor. “I’m armed,” he warns.

“Oh,” says the intruder. Her voice is soft. “I’m sorry, I–the door? It was open.”

“Bit late for company,” John says, and steps further into the light, so he can place the pistol on his desk, safety on.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just … I saw the light was on, and I just, I want– no, I  _need_  someone’s help.”

John should know better than to entertain entreaties for help from women in the wee hours of the morning, but his better judgement escapes him entirely. “Well come in then, and close the door behind you.”

The door closes and she walks into the light, and John’s eyes follow it’s path like a revelation. Her shoes are scuffed but the heels are neither too tall nor childishly short. Her dress is last year’s collection, to be sure, but the red sets off the ivory of her skin nicely and as she moves closer his gaze is drawn up past shapely hips, and adequate bosom - nicely accentuated by the dress - to her face.

She’s blonde - the wispy curls falling out from under the brim of her hat prove that - and nervous, from the way her red lipstick is almost entirely chewed off. Her eyes are whiskey in sunlight, and John tears his gaze away from her to look determinedly over her shoulder.

“What can I do for you, Miss–?”

“It’s Tyler, Rose Tyler,” she says, and John nods. He moves around behind his desk and drops into the chair, gesturing to Rose to sit. She does, primly, her hands clenched tight together on her knee. “I hear you’re the best,” she begins, “and I need the best. My mum, she’s missing.” John motions her to keep going.

“I work at The Blue Door,” Rose says, and John has a sudden vision of her onstage, mouth close to a mic, her voice low and husked as it spools out over top of a smoky crowd. “I’m a waitress, so I don’t get home ‘til very late most nights, and mum’s usually asleep when I finally do get home. We usually have tea in the afternoon before I go to my shift, but she wasn’t home this afternoon, didn’t leave a note or anything. I thought maybe she’d gone out with a friend, but I rang home during my break tonight and no answer. Then I called her friend Bev, thinking she might be there, but Bev said she hadn’t seen her since the night before, and oh, Mr Smith, I think something terrible’s happened!” This ended on a trembling sob, and Rose sniffled bravely before dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“It’s not like her to go off without telling me or leaving a note,” Rose continues, eventually. “I’ve called the police, but–” she trailed off, and John nods. He knows exactly how that phone call would have gone.

“Is there a man in her life?” Rose shook her head. “Any other relatives?” Another headshake. Tears trembled like diamonds on her eyelashes and John felt a pang of something in the empty space under his heart.

“Will you help me? Please say you will,” Rose pleads, leaning forward in her chair.  

“It’s not a lot to go on, you understand,” John says, hedging a little. Rose blinks.

“I can pay you,” she says, nearly defiant. John holds up his hand to forestall her, but Rose is already upending her purse onto his desk and digging out banknotes and coins. “I don’t have much right now, but I can get you more.”

John looks at the pile of crumpled bills and tarnished coins and then up at Rose’s face. Her lashes are still wet from her tears, and her mascara has run a bit, lending her eye make up a smokiness that does nothing to detract from the loveliness of her face. She’s chewing on her lip again, and John sighs. He never could resist a lady in need, and Rose Tyler was absolutely a lady in need.

“I’ll take the case,’ he says, and Rose smiles for the first time since he’s known her. John thinks he might kill a man for that smile.

She leaves shortly after, taking one of his cards. He promises to call after three days, and then looks down at the photo she’d left him. Jackie Tyler; blonde, and smiling. He wonders what horror awaits him in her discovery.


End file.
